2016 Porter Prize Shortlist

Tailings

'Call one thing another's name long enough, it will answer' Jane Hirshfield

Eyelets of cosmos, anaemic stars, only gazing in words. That parrotbush called budjan with its supernova of stamens, spurious and sacralInitiate of glinting conversation with long-beaked cockatoo and bee

Hunger is the dugite resigned to regurgitating a blue tongued lizardIts shingle back unpierced as it swings away, reefing its legs past a deadraven unsettled by maggots, used condoms, me taking a photo

A man searching the swamp for a hook-up on Grindr scans my handfor a phone, his vulnerability touching as he passes soundlesslyKeens into the whiteness of paperbark trunks and anonymity

I've been walking, barely felt Prickly Moses exposing flecks of bloodto garnet on my arms in the heat, which kindles this wildness in meI can't name and meet each time as a stranger, forfeited to sleep

My suitcase yawning at the foot of his bed, him spilling cunning lines acrossnew sheets as the mirror trembles with a passing train. I know the shameof wanting him to call me, before distrust stakes its claim on memory

There are worse things than fire. Thriving, a tingle tree, heartwood burnt outcenturies ago, shelters a school tour from a deluge in its still-black bethelOne girl lingering, is moved on by a teacher yelling that she won't drown

How it all turns in and swallows, thinking in unison as everything isknotted, from trees to throats. Swelling panicle of micro orchid troddendown to mandibles of ants, their mass smothering a flinch of baby bird

Scudding dragonfly plucked from the wind by dazzle of bee-eater, knowscatastrophe. Congested telepathy of letters nesting on my desk, a ruinof truth, part flight, breezing devotion through an open door

Here with my son, mantising gooseberries to our mouths in undergrowthA thrall of silvereyes quicken the fig as a neighbour spits words at her dogGalahs shear sunflowers above us. Before it rains, I'm burying the seeds

Lament for 'Cape' Kennedy

Kids walking to schoolfound youflat on your backon the pavement frosteyes openlooking for that emu in the Milky Waybut the coroner sawno evidence of foul play.

I saw you leavethe Dimboola Hotel at closing timewith half a slabthe doctor warned againstwith your clapped out gutsat only half three score and tenbut your missus wouldn't let you see your sonwhat else was there to do.

They haven't taken down the picturesplastered on your bedroom wallsof Elle Macpherson smiling downover and over againand no one will stay there for a whilebut you pissed yourself laughingwhen the skies opened on your funeralin the middle of the worst droughtin a century.

I remember you skinny and shybeanie, five days growth and'fuck you' painted on the uppers of your bootstaking me up the riverto show me the Bullitchbent over with agewith the footholeschopped out by your great unclesclimbing high for honeyand on the other sidethe scar from where they'd peeled off a canoe.

No foul play?What about the fellershot by the Namatji squatternot far from where they built the mission church?What about Dick-a-Dickleft in Sydney to walk homeafter the first real Ashes tour?What about Uncle Nyukrun down in his horse and cartby the publican drunk and driving home?What about Vicky and Bubblesfarmed out to Namatji familieswho tried and failed to make them white?What about the bosses in Canberra nowwhose law won't recogniseyour lore along the river?

Your bag of bones rots in a cheap coffinin Dimboola cemeterywhile you roam around Lake Wirregrinwaiting for it to fill againfor the Beal to blossom and seedand for the black and white cockatoosto fly the same way.

Campbell Thomson

Rage to order

1.insert here: dark joke about sharks (keep swimming or they die)cruising around the apartment something always in her hand movementfrom here to there, returning: every wayward thing needing her to find its home

Comments (25)

I agree with Mr Shane Alan Thompson - most of these poems are too clever by half. At least the Thomson poem had heart and soul. It moved me - the others left me cold. Is that what poetry has come to - all the tricks and brilliance and literary allusions - but no heart?

Maybe I am ill educated or just old fashioned, but some of these poems are not for me. They are a little too cryptic and clever with their wording, which takes away the emotion behind the message, of which I am looking for in a poem. If I have to stop after each line to think about what it means then It loses me very quickly. The story needs to sound like it comes from the heart.
For instance with Cambell Thompsons' poem I got the anger sadness and frustration straight away.........so I suppose put my words where my mouth is and have a crack at the next competition.

I have always loved poetry both reading & writing. However I learnt at school that poetry had to rhyme & if it didn't then it was prose. So how have these writings been called poetry? I would love to enter but am afraid I do write poetry not prose so I guess that counts me out.

I liked all the poetry, enjoyed reading them-- very traditional in all respects, which is fine with me. Congratulations to all the poets! But sometimes I yearn for a touch of John Ashbery or Michael Palmer: nice and illogical with lots of non-sequiturs (sigh): fly me away folks.

Does Susan Bennett really think that all criticism necessarily stems from sour grapes? Any author who doesn't anticipate some criticism is living in fairy land. You don't reject criticism- particularly constructive criticism- solely because you think it comes from one of "the losers."
While ever we continue to focus only on the obscure and ridiculous structures like we see in those short-listed, the losers will be the Australian public and poetry itself. The challenge for ABR is to stop its obscure, open-form only, "us and them" toffee-nosed, trendy attitude to poetry and embrace all forms of poetry- before it is too late.

Unlike most literary prizes, where the author’s identity is already known, because the work has been published in book form, our three prizes (for new work) are totally anonymous. Judges are not informed who was shortlisted until the winner has been chosen. Editor

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